


When the blast of war blows in our ears

by Sharpiefan



Series: The Shakespeare Series [12]
Category: The London Life (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Napoleonic Wars, Peninsular War, Regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 02:59:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6886714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpiefan/pseuds/Sharpiefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage.</i>
</p><p>The British Army is moving South during the autumn of 1810; the Fourteenth Light Dragoons are tasked with seeing nothing remains for the French.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the blast of war blows in our ears

_In peace there's nothing so becomes a man_  
_As modest stillness and humility:_  
_But when the blast of war blows in our ears,_  
_Then imitate the action of the tiger;_  
_Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,_  
_Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage._  
_~ Henry V, Act II, Sc. I_

**(Early autumn, 1810, Santarém, Portugal.)**

Lieutenant-Colonel Robbie Fitzgerald, newly promoted to the rank thanks to dead men's shoes (the previous incumbent had been killed in a mismanaged skirmish a few short months previously in which the 14th had not received the back up they'd needed despite having a reserve present in the field), not to mention the Earl of Rotherham's deep pockets, was standing under a tree somewhere in Portugal, bending over a map and in conversation with his senior officers.

“Lord Wellington wants to deny this land to the French and therefore has directed that all food supplies and forage be brought south." He indicated the map. “His aim is to withdraw south of here – he has put some sort of defences in place for Lisbon and the country surrounding it. Our job is to scout the countryside for the French – as ever – and find and remove as much provender as possible that they would otherwise make use of.”

“What about the locals, Colonel?”

Robbie took a breath. “They are more than welcome to remove south – we should encourage them to do so, indeed, although we should not expect them to be happy about it. The French will take their supplies by force and we must deny them that. All supplies, whether livestock, grain or flour must be removed, and anything that cannot be removed must be destroyed – we cannot presume that the French will not find things that have been hidden, no matter how good the hiding place.”

There were nods and murmurs of agreement at that, though more than one of the assembled officers wondered how they would persuade the Portuguese to give up their precious supplies.

“It is unlikely to be a very popular action, but it is a most necessary one. We are to winter south of here,” Robbie tapped a particular spot on the map, “and the French will doubtless not be happy about it. We can supply from Lisbon – the Royal Navy have supply vessels coming in regularly – and we must deny the French any possibility of living off the land as they do usually.”

It was a tall order, he knew, but one that was being repeated throughout the Army, in cavalry and infantry regiments alike. The order could not have been more different from Wellington's usual orders about dealing with the locals, which echoed Henry V's, as recounted by Shakespeare: _we give express charge, that in our marches through the country, there be nothing compelled from the villages, nothing taken but paid for, none of the French upbraided or abused in disdainful language; for when lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner._

There was no place for that now – the order was to ensure that the land be stripped bare behind the English as they retreated south to... who knew what, or where.

“It is the infantry who are to do the bulk of it, we are to provide scouts and foraging parties and inform them of such supplies as we discover. Please keep an especial watch for forage – we cannot expect the infantry to understand the needs of the cavalry, after all.”

That brought a chuckle from the gathered officers.

He looked around for the surgeon and veterinary officer. “Mr Widmer, Mr Thompson, if you would wait – I would have your reports on those men and horses unfit for duty.”

The surgeon spoke first. “Private Buxton's arm is healing well, but he will be unable to use it for some weeks, although he can ride. The two fevers – Callaghan and Maguire – are recovering well and should be back to full duty within the week.”

“Private Appleby's trooper is colicky and I'm keeping an eye on her, although I must confess that I don't think the outlook is likely to be good.”

Robbie sighed. “Appleby – C Troop?”

There was a nod in reply.

“He can use Private Maguire's trooper for now, if you will allow it, Captain Ogilvy?”

There was a nod of assent and Robbie turned to roll up the map. “Well, gentlemen, get to it. I wish to inspect the patrols before they go out.”

It was a shame that such things were necessary, he thought, and as he turned to mount his horse, he could not help but recall Shakespeare again.

_In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage._


End file.
